


all the words necessary

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Hot Dads Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3129911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iker's in London for Christmas. So is David. Somehow, the goalkeeper thinks they'll be spared an encounter.</p><p>He's wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the words necessary

**Author's Note:**

> i'd like to blame this story on the fact that iker really was in [london](http://instagram.com/p/w6ntyNzWO-/) over christmas, as was [david](http://instagram.com/p/w3uRHhxbBh/).
> 
> (*edited 1/7)

There’s a brief, blissful moment where he thinks he just might get away with it.

Iker knows he’s in the same town, but at some point on the plane ride in, he nearly manages to convince himself that it’s big enough for the both of them. Crowded streets and obligations will do their part in keeping  them safely separated. It’s not that he’s afraid, it’s just that it’s easier to compartmentalize David if their interaction is limited to the same exact pattern: once a year, in LA, with the buffer of the team between them. Like a root canal or Christmas, or more like his birthday, because the promise of him is an intrusive interrogation light, casting its glare on everything else in Iker’s life. _Have I lived enough to resist it_ , he finds himself asking.

But that is where David belongs, inside a precisely gift-wrapped box, hoarded away on the top shelf for the rest of the year, the shiny bow perched atop sometimes catching the light. He most certainly doesn’t belong here, in this charmed setting with twinkling lights and Christmas decorations, exiting Harrod’s with a gray beanie perched atop his slicked back blonde hair. Least of all because Iker finds it to be a tacky choice of winterwear, especially at his age.

There’s a split second where his brain doesn’t register it, where David might just be a stranger on the street and Iker is just keeping a close eye on Martin with the warmth of Sara’s body curled around his right arm. She’s telling him about the friends who have invited them over for Christmas day, and Iker nods supportively, even though he can already hear his anxiety release a warning cry. He hates small talk, only slightly less than he loathes awkward silences and they’re Sara’s friends, not his. He’d rather be back the hotel, football commentary on in the background with Martin babbling up at him on his lap. But he smiles and pushes the stroller forward and then it’s a gut-punch of realization.

His recovery is terrible, because he can feel his knuckles turning white inside the black leather gloves he’s worn, and his feet are frozen to the ground. There’s a faint roaring in his head, that sounds like the Bernabéu jeering at him, but David’s grinning at him, with his teeth as white and perfectly lined as a picket-fence and his eyes are brighter than a Christmas tree. For a moment, it’s like he’s in front of the goal line during a penalty kick, balanced on the knife’s edge between delight and despair. There are only two answers.

Turns out, it’s a trick question because Sara’s choosing the third option, firmly tugging on his arm like he’s a particularly unruly child and she’s holding out her hand to this man she’s never met. Maybe she inherited him when they moved in together, like the toaster or the LA Galaxy mug with a jagged chip at the top where Iker can’t seem to stop putting his mouth. He’s busy berating himself for not taking longer, or taking too long, or whatever set of events led to this exact moment while David’s crossing to him. The wind whips furiously against them and the red of David’s cheeks is so hauntingly familiar, exactly the same shade they would turn after an especially strenuous workout, that Iker can almost recall the taste of it.

This is synesthesia.

This is madness.

This is David, unabashedly flinging his arms around Iker’s neck and burying his face into the naked curve of his throat. Iker is glad he can’t see his face because he can feel the curl of his smiling lips against chilled skin and it’s better, or worse, or does he even know the difference anymore.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in town?”

He tries to pull away from David, because he feels like a bit like a pinata, the whack to the gut, the messy bits of himself spilling out everywhere. He’s acutely aware that even in the dark, with his eyes closed, he could touch the exact spot on his neck where David’s mouth had been. But David lingers in the embrace, savors like he has the right. Finally, their arms fall away and when Iker inhales, every breath doesn’t carry the scent of him.

“I wasn’t sure you would be, jet setter.” Iker follows up the lie with a chuckle and David’s still grinning as he peers up at him, his hat slightly askew from the exuberance of the hug. The Spaniard doesn’t think he gave permission to his hand, but there they are, his treacherous fingers adjusting the gray wool with a light pat. David’s eyes follow when it drops away and he only then notices the sizeable, but sleek, black stroller and his eyes go wide with excitement.

“Martin?” he asks, and Iker hears the wonder in his voice, tries not to let it rip everything inside of him into tatters.

“Asleep, and missing his presentation.” Iker’s English feels rusty, like it rattles until he clears his throat. He tries not to think about the fact that he’s imagined this exact scenario at least a dozen times. If only because he hasn’t yet discovered one that doesn’t make him feel that strange swooping in his gut, like he’s inside an elevator and suddenly the cords snap.

Carefully, Iker reaches down to pull a corner of the thick pile of blankets to show off the curve of a pudgy cheek and that sleep-slack mouth. In typical David fashion, he’s forgotten his gloves so he rubs his fingers together first, until they’re slightly warmed, before tentatively reaching down and very gently stroking a thumb over Martin’s face. Iker gnaws on the inside of his lip as he understands why they never recycle pinatas.

“He’s beautiful.”

“He’s mostly Sara.” Iker is pleased when David scoffs, rolls his eyes.

“And how is the family?” Sara asks and Iker blinks in rapid succession as he tries to get his mind to remember that Sara is here, with him. They’re in London together and this isn’t some clerical error that happened at the branch offices of Destiny or Fate or Serendipity.

“They’re good, yeah,” David replies politely, sliding the handle of the bag around his wrist and stowing his hands underneath his armpits for heat. He flicks his wrist so it swings. “I forgot part of Romeo’s gift, so paying the piper.”

“Martin is a little easier to shop for,” Iker supplies and David’s laughter booms out.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. How long are you all in town for?”

“Until the 29th,” Sara answers for him. David’s eyes are still on his face.

“Come to our get together on Christmas Eve!” Iker’s always admired this, David’s ability to read people. Somehow he knows to flip his beaming gaze onto Sara, soften the smile until it seems more sincere.

“That’s sweet of you, but we made plans to have dinner with a friend of mine…”

“Bring her too!” David interrupts enthusiastically. “The more the merrier. It’s just close friends and family, nothing fancy, but you know how Vic gets when she plans. We always end up with enough to feed the whole neighborhood. And there’s booze. Please, come.”

Iker’s discomfort ratchets up at the thought of being surrounded and abandoned in a room full of strangers he will barely be able to communicate with. He’s had this nightmare before.

“We’ll ask,” Sara promises.

David’s reaching for her hand, but he’s watching Iker in that expectantly patient way of his, the look of a man who’s gotten accustomed to getting whatever he sets his mind to. Some things, he’s gotten without considering them at all.

“Do more than ask. Try.”

Iker spends the night worrying about it, through the rest of the shopping trip, dinner afterward and the taxi ride home where Martin begins to fuss. Back in the hotel room Iker’s managed to calm him, rubbing a thumb over the shell of his ear soothingly and about to turn on the tv.

“Oh, Emilia says she doesn’t mind. I think she’s got a bit of a crush on Beckham,” she tells him, standing in front of the bathroom door wearing a short silk robe. “Like most of the world.”

He can tells she finds this amusing and he laughs for both of their sakes, though he thinks it sounds a bit hollow. She heads in to relax into a bubble bath, waves at Martin before she disappears. Iker strokes his back until he’s asleep again, staring straight at the tv, unseeing.

Two am finds him restless, staring out into the sliver of night exposed by the parting of the curtains. He can’t get comfortable in this bed. He can’t fall asleep, not when he’s acutely aware of the fact that he’d been hoping for this yes.

 

~

 

Iker’s awake too soon, showers alone and scribbles a note for Sara before heading out into the city. There’s a coffee shop on the corner where he finds an empty barstool, facing away from the door. It’s like a hand kneading tense shoulders, the buzz of conversations he doesn’t have to follow, the way he can blend into the blur.

He peers out the window, catches sight of a father adjusting his daughter’s Manchester United scarf carefully to keep the chill out. She touches his cheek and the look on his  face...it’s like Iker is staring into his heart, like he can see the way his blood pumps in and out.

He calls the second person on his speed dial.

“Merry Christmas Eve!” Sergio sings.

“I didn’t think you’d be awake,” Iker says by way of greeting.

“Then why’d you call?”

Iker shrugs.

“Why are you up?”

“Pilar’s making me wrap her gifts.” There’s a muffled voice in the background that Iker imagines is Pilar. “Oh, sorry, she says they’re _our_ gifts. Even though they’re for her family members. Oop, now she’s giving me the eye.”

Sergio lets out a little grunt, like Pilar’s smacked him. Iker shakes his head, chuckles at them. He’s glad that Sergio has this; he can’t think of anyone who deserves to be happy more than him.  

“How’s London?” he inquires. Iker nearly shrugs again.

“It’s good. Cold,” he admits. “No snow, though.” There’s no mistaking the disappointment there.

“Did you buy me a gift yet?”

“It’s already under your tree. It’s been there since you put it up.”

“Not that one. Although, thanks for that. I’ve been meaning to buy a new one since Cris cracked the screen.”

“How’d you know it was an iPad? I even made them put it in a bigger box.”

“I have my ways, Ikercio. I meant a gift from London.”

“I’m not buying you another gift.”

“You have to. It’s the law.”

Iker rolls his eyes and then there’s a pause, heavy, sagging with hesitation like overripe fruit. Sergio can tell Iker’s not ready to talk about it.

“Hey, funny story,” Sergio begins, and Iker lets him prattle on for a while, not really paying attention to his words, just listening to the sound of his voice. He catches the punchline, where Sergio dives to the floor, clutching a Sergio Jr. desperately to his chest, learning the perils of becoming distracted when there’s a rolling baby on a changing table. Sergio cackles in the background and Iker laughs along, more at his reaction than the story.

“And the worst part, it was just Karim calling to ask if I knew where to buy table lamps.”

It amazes Iker, some days, that Sergio is responsible for another living human being. He takes another sip of his drink, watching as the father and the daughter disappear down the corner.

“I ran into David.

“Ahh,” Sergio says; it sounds more like a sigh.

“He invited us to his Christmas party. Or Christmas Eve party.”

“Are you going?”

“Sara and her friend want to.”

“And you?”

The thing with Iker is, he likes tradition. The neatness of it, the comfort of having something he can depend. Like seeing David only once a year, with Sergio in tow. Like the way David will get too drunk during those nights and his head will end up on Iker’s shoulder, and Iker will have to dig his nails into his thigh to keep his mouth off him. Or the way that Sergio will bear the burden of David himself, letting him lean heavily on the way back to the hotel, will smile affectionately when the former player declares his love right there, in the middle of the hallway. Iker will hang back on the other side of the door, head against the frame, and Sergio won’t tell David that he’s confessing to the wrong person.

He’s come to rely on Sergio’s hand cupping his elbow as they say goodbye to David, who nuzzles into Iker’s shoulder like he never has any intention of saying it. It’s as foolish as the urge Iker feels every time, to stay. There’s this look Sergio gets, when they get back to their own room and he unceremoniously climbs into Iker’s bed, winds himself around the older man. Like he’s having sympathy pains, feeling Iker’s hurt himself, and a bit of vulnerability, the face of someone who still thinks happy endings exist.

Screw happy, Iker thinks. At this point he’ll take clean. A severing, with potential for healing.

“And me,” he admits, because it’s Sergio.

“Hey, so he finally met Martin?”

“He was asleep.”

“David?” Sergio asks.

“Martin,” Iker replies drily.

Sergio’s quiet on the other end of the phone and Iker bends the yielding plastic of the coffee lid  until it cracks.

“Well then, maybe you should go.” Or at least those are the words. Iker hears the rest of it, the trepidation, the warning. Sergio says it like a war veteran, like he’s seen fatal wounds before and he’s bracing himself to see them again.

“Maybe,” Iker agrees, wonders if his voice belies his eagerness. It makes him feel pathetic, all of it. He wants to tell him that he’ll resist, won’t kiss David in a pantry or let him fuck him against the bathroom sink, or whatever sordid story Sergio’s imagining.

“Alright, well call me Christmas morning. I don’t care if it’s early,” Sergio insists. 

“Yeah. Okay. Give the baby my love.”

“Aww, love you too, Iker.”

Iker hangs up on him.

 

~

 

Iker’s doing up the last button on his shirt when his phone buzzes.

_“Tonight then"_

Without punctuation, it comes off more like a warning than a question. Like David’s trying to ask for what he wants, but he’s fallen out of practice, isn’t quite sure how this goes. Iker answers anyway.

_“Yes. Dress code?”_

“ _Normal_ "

_“Real-people normal or David Beckham normal?”_

_“Any kid who loses £1 million before his virginity doesn’t count as ‘real people,’ mate. Wear anything.”_

He tucks the ends of his shirt into his slate gray slacks, doing up the button and zipper with an eye on Martin, perched in the center of the bed, slobbering merrily on a teething ring. Plopping down beside him, Iker traces his thumb over his cheek, tries not to think about it being the same patch of skin David caressed.

“We could make a run for it, just you and me,” he entreats.

Martin babbles at him nonsensically, though Iker gets the distinct impression he disapproves.

“Fine, but I’m going to remember this when you're older.”

“Iker, could you…?” Sara calls from the other room.

She’s framed by the bright bulbs adorning the rounded curve of the vanity mirror, her thick curtain of dark hair falling over the nearly-pink skin of her bare back, zipper waiting halfway down the line of it. Her slender hand moves the hair aside, her head turning slightly to look in his direction.

“Zip?” she requests.

He obliges and then lingers, slips his arms around her waist and admires the easy way she falls back into him, the way their reflections intertwine like the roots of a tree. The way her face suffuses with affection when he brushes his mouth over the nape of her neck. The way she glows and even the vanity lights pale in the face of such warmth.

There is no Sergio this time, but there is this, which is so much more than he ever expected, the solid, comforting wholeness of what they’ve nurtured between them. It’s more than nothing. It’s enough, he tells himself.

It should be enough.

 

~

 

There’s a wry laugh inside Iker’s head that doesn’t reach his mouth as he hands their outerwear over to the lanky kid looking bored at the coat check. They have a coat check in their four-story mansion (five, he later finds out) but David insists that this place feels,

“Much cozier, like it’s just for the family.”

Iker can’t even bring himself to finish the joke, not when David tenderly kisses both of Sara’s cheeks in turn and does the same for her friend, Emilia, who looks a bit starstruck.

“He’s missing the party,” David teases, tapping a finger to the top of Martin’s car seat.

“He wants to make an entrance,” Iker retorts. They’re standing close enough that when David laughs, he feels his chest shake against his elbow, his breath just barely brush against his neck.

As he leads them into the party, Iker sees Emilia touches her fingers to her cheek in awe and Iker wonders, for neither the first time nor the last, whether this can just be explained as a particularly vicious strain of hero worship.

“Vic, look who’s finally here,” David booms and she turns smoothly, a perfect ballerina trapped inside a music box, her long hair fluttering up in the air and landing over her shoulder again.  Time seems to have paid its deference to her, only softened the sharp edges of her cheeks and jaw. Iker is reminded of how she looks just like the romantic interest in every classic love story, the one the hero pines after and never quite becomes worthy of. Beautiful enough to hurt.  

Her cheek is cool when it brushes against his, he scent of her like flowers and whiskey, like secrets pressed onto her skin. Iker thinks how much easier it all might have been if he could have learned to hate her.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Her smile is too warm for him not to return it, even when David sidles up beside her, rests a palm low on her back. It’s instinctive, the way her body turns into his, shoulderblade fitting against collarbone. An art form they’ve mastered.

“Yes, very long,” he agrees. Iker looks away when David buries a kiss against her hair, distracts himself by introducing Sara and Victoria. He leaves Martin with them, lets David drag him into the kitchen with the promise of,

“Someone’s been wanting to say hello.”

Romeo’s lounging in a high-back dining chair, glued to his iPad when David ruffles his hair, shaking his head away from the touch.

Iker looks at him and all he can see is the runt with an unruly mop of blonde hair that used to barely reach his hipbone, who demanded his present of almond cakes even before Iker could make it through the door. He remembers the Mallorca celebrations when David suddenly disappeared, the way he’d clung to Iker’s leg until the Spaniard had just picked him up and tried to comfort him in English, but victory and exhaustion had made a jumble of the words in his head. He’d settled for whispering in a soothing tone in Spanish and it’d done the trick, enough so that when David returned from taking Brooklyn and Cruz to the restroom, Romeo had knocked his older brother down until the three of them were wrestling lazily on the pitch. Later, when Iker made to head to his own car at the end of the night, Romeo had taken his hand, held on until Iker couldn’t find it in him to protest, let them take him home.

(He’d woken the next morning with his nose buried against the side of David’s throat, arms splayed over his back, leg curled around the outside of his. Kept his breathing measured so he could feign sleep, cling to him with a grim, childlike determination. As though clinging could keep him.)

(He likes to think he had no choice, not when David’s skin smelled like victory, the feel of his fingers digging ruthlessly into his hipbones as weighty as trophies.)

“Mmm?” Romeo allows, blowing David’s cover.

“Look who’s here.”

Romeo shoots him a glance and lifts his chin at him in acknowledgement.

“‘Sup?”

“Say hello like a decent lad, yeah?” David insists, jostles his shoulder with an elbow.

“Hello,” Romeo concedes, lifting a hand to wave.

“Hola, Romeo,” Iker ventures, clears his throat awkwardly.

“He’s big into footy, this one. Though he’s got shit taste in teams,” David comments, rests his elbow on the back of the chair.

“ ‘s not my fault Messi’s the greatest player of our time.” He shrugs.

“How great can he be when he’s only got a 35% success rate against me?”

“He still broke the Liga record before your boy, Cristiano.” Iker scoffs at him.

“I would hope so, when he’s been playing twice as long in La Liga as Cristiano.”

David’s hand stifles whatever snarky response Romeo is about to make.

“A culé under your own roof,” Iker accuses.

He glances at Romeo again, the top of his head nearly reaching David’s shoulder, and it’s enough to make the ghosts of the past dissipate like morning fog. He’s a stranger here now, an outsider paying them a visit. Whatever bound them together once ripped apart by the years and distance, without protest from either of them. It makes him feel old, like the ache in his bones, the way his body takes longer to heal, his heart harder to hurt.

“Let’s get a drink and let this traitor suffer in silence,” David offers and Iker nods, lets himself be led.

The kitchen’s a flurry of activity, the catering crew busily bustling around but David ignores them, a twinkle in his eye as he disappears behind the fridge door with a hum. He brandishes two bottles of Mahou Cinco Estrellas with a grin so bright that Iker’s instinct is to look away but self-preservation’s never been his forte. He moves toward him instead.

“When did the English come to their senses and start stocking Spanish beer?” he taunts, reaching for one that David holds out of reach at the insult.

“Keep it up and I’ll drink them both.”

Iker holds out his hand expectantly and David passes it to him, lets his fingertips brush against his palm like he means to. The Spaniard takes a long sip from the bottle to avoid having to say anything.

“It looks good on you,” David remarks, leaning back against the wall with a studied casualness.

“What?” Iker asks, stares down at his plain mustard yellow sweater in confusion.

“I meant victory. Success. And not just the Decima kind.” David swallows thickly and Iker watches his adam’s apple bob beneath his skin because it’s easier than meeting his eyes.

“Ah. Thank you. It always came easier for you.”

“What?” David wonders and it’s soft, too gentle and Iker finally does look up. Only for a second because his eyes are too sincere and Iker has to look away again, stare at a button on his cream-colored cardigan.

“Getting what you want. Being happy.”

He’s careful to make it sound like a fact and not a condemnation. Though.

There’s a part of him that resents David for the way he punches through life like it’s a dress rehearsal, like they’re young again, like their bones will stitch themselves together again because their bodies were fashioned for glory. Like they are the stuff of myths. The way he looks at him in LA, unguarded and inviting, waiting for their inevitable collision. Like he would savor every bruise and bump, like he was made for exactly this sort of devastation. But Iker knows now, knew then, that the scars they leave on one another do not heal with time and absence.

“The trick is to enjoy things for what they are.”

 _Teach me_ , he nearly says. _Teach me how to love less_. He shrugs.

“Maybe one day, I will get that trick.”

David chuckles, drains the rest of the bottle in a single go and gets another.

“I was jealous, you know,” the Englishman admits with his back to him, pretends to rummage around inside for another bottle. Iker knows that every inch of that fridge is impeccably organized, that David’s OCD demands it.

Iker thinks, of course, how could you resist something as shiny as La Decima?

“I always thought the Bernabéu was it for you, that you’d never be as happy outside of it as inside.” He lets the door shut with a soft thud, stays on the other side of the granite countertop. “But you’re happy now.”

And Iker doesn’t miss it this time, the accusation, the betrayal in his voice. His mouth opens and closes silently, stupidly, ends up making him look like a fish being gutted. It’s appropriate, considering how it makes him feel.

The door swings open and Victoria enters with a, “We’ve running low on champagne in there. Why are we running low on champagne when I ordered a case?” for the catering crew.

She glances between them, before touching a hand to Iker’s shoulder.

“Sara says she dropped Martin’s pacifier in the car. Would you be a dear?”

At the door, he glances back and sees Victoria cup David’s cheek, watches him lean into her, head hanging low. Iker doesn’t bother getting his coat again.

The chill scrapes against his face, snaps against the back of his neck until he shifts his weight from one foot to the other to keep warm. He prefers it to being inside with David close, too close, but not close enough to touch. To wanting and wanting to not all at once. When the valet hands him the pacifier, he considers hiding out in the car. He forces himself to return, lest Victoria think her party wasn’t a success.

He hands it off to Sara, rubs a thumb over her knuckles absently and tries not to scan the room.

He fails. David’s in a corner, chatting with two blonde women, standing too close to one of them. He leans forward to whisper something in her ear, his mouth almost resting against the curve of it. Iker nearly frowns but when the women laugh heartily at whatever joke he makes and David’s face transforms into a sunburst, he can’t go through with it. It would be absurd, he thinks, to get upset over a fact, like the sky in England is gray, like Real Madrid is the only club worth belonging to, like David doesn’t know how to love himself on his own. That he is willing to primp and preen for worshippers to sigh dreamily at his altar.

He collects love like other men accumulate wealth, as a measure of his worth. He courts them, sometimes, Iker thinks unkindly, just to prove he can.

Martin whines against Sara’s shoulder and Iker’s thankful for the interruption, takes him into his own arms to shush him. There’s guests milling around in front of a door left ajar and Iker enters what seems to be a study, oak ceiling-to-floor bookshelves lining the wall, imposing leather armchairs facing outward toward the door. It’s safe a place as any to hide. His son lets out a little whimper and he hums under his breath, some fragment of a song Sergio’s been singing for weeks now. He drops into one of the chair, rubs circles onto his back.

The door cracks further open and a neat blonde bun comes into view, followed by the heart-shaped face of a little girl in sweater featuring a reindeer in a tiara. He thinks he would know she was David’s even if she didn’t have those same roasted chestnut eyes or smile in that way of his,  like happiness is the only thing they’ve ever known. He’d know just from the way she wanders in and peers up at him, curious and trusting, like he’s a puzzle that will reveal itself to her eventually. Her father’s image in miniature.

“Hi,” she greets, brushes her hands over wool skirt. Not even four years old yet and already obsessed with perfection.

“Hi.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m...a friend, of your dad’s.”

“I’m Harper.”

“Iker.”

“Ee-care?”

“Sure.”

“Who’s this?” she asks, leans forward before touching just the tip of her finger very carefully to Martin’s back.

“This is Martin.” Martin’s settled down, lazily sucking on his pacifier, and doesn’t protest when Iker turns him around to face her. Her eyes go wider, fascinated as she gingerly moves closer still, touching the sole of Martin’s shoe. “You can say hello.”

“Okay.”

She looks as though she’s about to pet Martin’s cheek but climbs onto Iker’s lap instead, settling her side against his chest and brushing a hand over baby-soft hair. Martin seems to approve, blinks owlishly up at her.

“I think he likes you,” Iker tells her.

“You talk funny,” Harper informs him. Iker’s laugh rumbles against her arm.

“I’m not English. I speak Spanish.”

“Like Aunt Eva.”

“Sure.”

“Do you play footy too?” She touches a button on Martin’s woolen onesie, like she’s not sure how to play with him, but she’s going to figure it out.

“Yes. I used to play with your dad, in Spain.

“Oh,” she remarks, like she understands. Iker supposes it makes about as much sense to her as it does to him anyway.

He wonders how there were months, entire seasons, that disappeared in the shadow of David’s presence, how he would wake up with the taste of him on his mouth and fall asleep with the marks of his teeth scattered along his body like constellations. And now they’re just footnotes, summed up in single sentences.

_“I used to play with your dad.”_

_“We used to be friends.”_

_“I think we were in love once. Or maybe it was just me. Either way, we thought it meant something.”_

Too many words for an introduction in polite company, Iker thinks.

She reaches inside her pocket and pulls out two mini candy canes, holds one out for Martin.

“Here.”

Iker takes it from her lightly.

“He’s not allowed to eat candy  yet.”

“Oh,” she frowns, unwraps her own and pops it into her mouth before peering up at him. “Do you want it?”

“Sure. Thanks.” He touches the crook of his candy cane against hers. “Cheers.” She giggles.

Iker supposes this is why he’s always loved kids, because they make decisions instinctively. There’s no pretension, no need for wooing. She leans back against Iker, tucking herself underneath his arm, her shoe knocking against his calf as her leg swings. Iker can almost feel his own heart carving out a place for her, for another piece of David, aches with the familiarity of it.

“Do you know how to drive a car?”

“Yes,” Iker answers, brow furrowing. “Why?”

“Cruz said dad got me one, for Christmas, but I don’t know to ride it yet. You could teach me, I guess.”

“Okay.”

She picks up Martin’s hand in hers, lightly dangles it until he drops the chew toy to coo at her, and Iker has to look away, because this...

It’s every _might have been_ in a _never was_ world and it’s so far beyond the realm of minor traumas he’d braced himself for. He glances off, thinking it’ll help but he’s wrong, because staring back at him is David and it’s…

It’s worse, a thousandfold worse. His mouth is dreamily smiling but his eyes are tortured and Iker doesn’t even think he knows that he’s resting a hand on his chest, like he’s pressing against the pain.  

It’s seeing the heart all over again, only hearts are such fragile things.  The slightest brush can slit an artery. Now, there’s blood everywhere, it’s pouring out of his hands, it’s spreading inside the chest cavity, it’s blooming onto the soft fabric of his sweater. Iker’s watching him bleed out in public and he can’t do a thing to stop it.

He bites so hard on the candy cane that it cracks in his mouth and the sharp edge slices the inside of his cheek, and now the blood’s in his mouth.

Harper finishes her candy cane, hops off his lap.

“You can bring him too,” she offers, magnanimously.

“Thanks.”

She toddles off into the other room and Iker follows after, returns a content Martin to Sara.

He needs air. He needs something bracing and refreshing, something beyond the lead in his lungs, the acid in his throat. He’s so close, fingers nearly touching the rounded coolness of the knob when a hand pulls on his elbow, drags him away and he knows, from the shocking amount of gentleness, from the way the fingers curl but do not grab.  

He should tug away. He should his fold his body up and straighten his spine.

His hands shouldn’t be clutching at the back of the thick wool, digging until David can feel the edge of his nails through layers of fabric.

He shouldn’t be kissing David but what else is left to them when their mouths are desperately shuddering against one another?

“Don’t,” he whispers, as David’s hand clutches the back of his neck.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, as his fingers plant themselves against the skin taut over Iker’s hipbone.

“Don’t,” he pleads, as their irreverent bodies arch closer together, as David’s breath sobs against his cheekbone, his throat, his shoulder.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he thinks to himself as his hand cups the back of David’s head, runs unsteady fingers through his hair when his forehead rests against him.

He can see them in the bathroom mirror, the concave curve of David’s back and his own cheek resting against golden hair. They’re comforting one another in that futile, helpless way of two people who’ve grown into their wounds, who remember who left them there in the first place. It changes nothing. That doesn’t stop either of them.

He’d tried so hard to convince himself that he was the only one in pain, the only one suffering. It was easier that way. But this?

He closes his eyes, touches his lips to David’s temple. He thinks how naive they both were, David pretending like he’d gotten the hang of this, Iker thinking that kissing, fucking, lust were the worst things they could do together, to each other. Such fools.

“When I invited you, I didn’t think we...I thought I…”David tries to explain.

“I know. Me neither.”

 _I don’t care,_ Iker thinks _. I would’ve come anyway. I would’ve come always._

Neither of them says anything else.

They stay like that until David’s breathing matches Iker’s pulse, and then a moment longer.

Enough for Iker to rest his fingers on the collar of David’s sweater and blindly tip his mouth up to find his. He means for it to be a brief brushing of lips but the Englishman lets his part, and Iker thinks, how much more could it hurt? They kiss until he discovers the answer, because David manages to keep the slant of his mouth from turning demanding but his hands grasp at Iker’s hips with a measure of urgency. The Spaniard has to be the one to untangle them, to not turn back and look at David when he slips out of the bathroom.

It costs him more than its worth.

 

~

 

After that, his luck finally seems to find him. Victoria introduces him to a group of diehard madridistas, a few of whom look at him like they think he knows every club secret and would he be so kind as to share them. He wracks his brain for something, anything interesting and suddenly remembers Sergio’s story, shares it with them. It gets easier after they all laugh, after they remember that he’s someone outside of San Iker. Sara joins them at some point, rests her hand on the back of his shoulder and leans into his side. His arm slips around her waist and he feels almost...content.

Near the end of the night, Iker’s in the kitchen, trying to rinse off the teething ring Martin's dropped mid-chew, but he won’t stop wriggling against him. Sara and Emilia are making their farewells in the living room and Iker’s about to give up and just pop the toy into his own mouth, when a pair of arms slide underneath his and wrap around Martin. He makes a little noise of protest, not particularly keen on strangers, but David noses into his temple and kisses his forehead, and it’s as simple as that. He is his father’s son. Martin kneads at his cheek, babbling at him and Iker fumbles to turn the water off, can’t bring himself to look away.

“He’s finally awake,” David mumbles against Martin’s cheek, where he drops another kiss.

Iker nods, runs a hand over the back of his son’s head and doesn't stop himself from letting it trail over the back of David's knuckles. Their eyes meet over the top of his head and David's are morning light on oak, all depth and warmth, full of longing. 

"I never got it," David admits, breath soft as a wisp.

"Hmm?" Iker wonders.

"The trick. I never got it when it came to you and me."

His fingers come to a rest on top of David's. 

"Me neither."

**Author's Note:**

> mostly, i have a lot of iker x becks feels and since the most painful ones involve them both being papas now, what else would i write about. thanks for reading! comments are most cherished.
> 
> (*i edited the ending. the previous one just didn't feel right to me, so here we are.)


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